


Finding The Way Home

by tenacious_err



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenacious_err/pseuds/tenacious_err
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Haymitch invited her to District Twelve, he never thought she'd actually come. As Effie Trinket tries to fit in, he knows he's made a huge mistake. Set post-Mockingjay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding The Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic that both gave Effie a general place in the world post-rebellion and wasn't completely soaked in angst. Light torture mentions here and there, because damn you canon, but the focus is less on that and more on her figuring out what to do with herself.

Effie Trinket doesn't belong in District Twelve. Yet here she stands, on his doorstep, with at least twenty bags behind her. Before Haymitch can figure out how she got them all here, she shoves past him and waves at the bags.

“Get those, would you?” she asks. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“You invited me.”

“You weren't supposed to accept,” he says. 

She ignores him and walks into his living room. Sure, he invited her, technically. He thought she, of all people, would know a fru-fru fake invitation to visit that was only meant to end an awkward conversation. She still wears a huge wig and ridiculous dress, and it makes him feel like they're about to pick two new tributes and ride with them to their deaths. Haymitch growls.

“I'm not carrying your bags,” he yells to her. 

He's halfway to sitting back down when Effie screams. His blood goes cold. 

He stumbles, adrenaline mixing with booze and insomnia, and finds her standing in the middle of his living room, annoyingly unharmed, with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth. Alcohol bottles, food, and trash lie wherever he last threw them.

“God, woman! What?!”

“What is this- this abomination?” Effie demands. She looks like she just walked in on a murder. Haymitch grabs the nearest bottle of alcohol and takes a swig from it. 

“I'm going to bed,” he says. 

Effie gasps. “You can't simply sleep upon my arrival. I'm your guest, Haymitch!” 

“That's why I haven't strangled you yet, sweetheart,” he says. 

When he goes to his room, he hears her trying to pry open the guest room's door. Bottles clatter to the floor. It's been years since he's been in there, and he can hear Effie's gasp from his bed.

“There is never reward without struggle,” she says. He wonders when his guest room became a reward. Haymitch rolls over and puts a pillow over his head to drown her out. 

It's Effie, she'll spend a few minutes trying to put in hard work before she leaves. 

When he wakes up, the guest room door is open to show a cleaned room filled with Effie's things. A closet he forgot he owned is filled with Capitol clothes, and the dresser has several wigs propped up on it. 

The living room downstairs is clean, too, along with the kitchen. Effie sits drinking tea. He notices she's organized his alcohol by how much is left in each bottle and raises his eyebrow. 

“You're still here?” he asks. She makes him a cup of tea. He pours whiskey in it.

Effie clucks her tongue. Any points she might have raised from the alcohol organizing are immediately lost when she turns her nose up to him. “Of course I am,” she says. “It's clear you need a hand.”

“Maybe a useful hand, not yours.” She ignores him. 

The week continues the same way. Effie talks about this fashion trend and that and the new trends for the year until he pretends to sleep so she'll leave him alone. Day by day the rooms in his home become organized and spotless. He only actually sees her clean once, when she scrubs the floor while he pretends to sleep on the couch.

She scrubs the same spot over and over again until it's long since been cleaned and her hands are raw. Whatever spot she was trying to scrub, he doesn't think she got it. 

It's days later when he wakes from a nightmare to find Effie looming over him. “One nightmare to the next,” he mutters. 

Effie takes her hand off his shoulder. “You were – you seemed distressed.” 

He falls back to his bed. “I'm definitely distressed now, so good one confirming that,” he says. Thought filters back to him and he realizes two things: one, it's dark enough that he's sure it's the middle of the night, and two, half of his room is missing its usual dirt and grime. 

Haymitch jolts upright. “What are you doing?” 

Effie glances around. “Cleaning, of course.”

“Out,” he says. 

“I just thought-”

“Out. Now.” 

Effie looks around at the half of the room that isn't clean, and pouts. Haymitch wonders how it is he can lead a rebellion, but not get one woman out of his bedroom, and what it says about him – or her. 

“I don't come to the Capitol and burn your wigs,” he says. “Stay out of my room.”

Her eyes widen. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Try me,” he says. 

“Oh, honestly,” she says. “It's only cleaning. I'm very discreet, you know. If you have unmentionables I won't tell anyone. Look at this pillow cover – have you ever even cleaned this?” She reaches down for the pillow. 

“Stop!” He lunges for her, a second too late. Effie sucks in a sharp breath and when she pulls her hand back, a small drop of blood seeps from her pointer finger. His knife pokes out from beneath the pillow. She covers her finger, but never once cries out or complains about the pain.

“Do you see now why you should be clean and organized?” she says. 

“It's there to ward off nosy busybodies,” he grumbles. “Now get out of my room, and don't come back.”

Effie hesitates. Her eyes linger on the knife, but she shakes her head. “Fine, if you want to live in filth I won't stop you, but the state of your room reflects your true self.”

“Hm,” he grumbles thoughtfully. “I guess I should keep more booze in here then, huh?”

She leaves, grumbling the whole way, and he goes back to bed with the pillow over his head again. 

The next week, when the house is clean from top to bottom except for half of his room, she comes downstairs in some of his old clothes and mud boots. At least, he thinks they're his. They've been bedazzled and cut up and re-sewn with bright pink fabric so that they aren't quite Capitol clothes, but they certainly aren't his clothes either. 

“Haymitch,” she scolds. “Do you have no manners at all? It's impolite to stare.” 

“What did you do to my clothes?” 

“They were disgusting.” She wrinkles her nose. “Stained and old. But I took the best parts and made something better! Peeta helped. He's very good with his hands.” He's going to have to talk to Peeta about that later. After all the help he's given the boy, this betrayal is unthinkable. “And look! I made you one too.” 

She shoves a folded outfit at him. He unrolls it to find one that nearly matches hers. His has pants, and hers has been cut into a dress, but otherwise they're the same. He gawks. 

“Are you coming?” she asks him, and he wonders when she crossed the room and got to the back door. 

“Coming?” he repeats. 

“To watch the geese.”

Effie Trinket has gone insane. “You're going to watch the geese.”

“If you can't clean your house, how are you supposed to look after living creatures?” she asks. 

“You sure you won't just pick two of them and drag them to their deaths?” he asks. 

Effie turns before he can see her expression, and leaves. He watches her attempt to lecture the geese. It sounds a lot like the lectures she gives him. A goose nips at her. She scolds it, and that tone he definitely knows, but the goose snaps again and she stumbles back into a mud puddle. 

It won't be long before she figures out she doesn't belong here and runs back to the Capitol. 

He goes for a walk. Maybe, if he's lucky, the geese will eat her. When he returns she's back in her Capitol clothing. 

The next morning he wakes to the smell of wood burning and smoke filling his home. Haymitch rolls out of bed, his knife in hand, and runs to the source. Effie stands in his kitchen waving a rag at the growing fire.

He's too damn tired and hungover to deal with this. But he supposes he can't just let his house burn down... or Effie. He'd never hear the end of it from Katniss and Peeta. He grabs a bucket and fills it with water outside before running back to throw it on the fire. Effie gets the idea and finds a large empty alcohol bottle to fill and pour. 

After the fire dies, Effie stands with wet clothing (another set of his that she ruined, he notices,) and a caved-in wig. A single strand of natural blonde hair sticks along her forehead, and her makeup is smeared across her face. 

“What the hell?!” Haymitch yells. 

Effie stares at a pile of ash on top of the stove. “Peeta made it look so easy.”

“Burning down my house?” he demands. He is definitely going to have a long talking to with that boy. First his clothes, now his house. It's one thing for her to ruin everything, but Peeta is supposed to be on his side. 

Effie glances over, and her expression turns from embarrassment to mortification. “Oh, Haymitch! You look awful.”

She reaches out and straightens his shirt. He grabs her wrist. “Enough,” he yells, a retort about how she looks on his lips. She cowers. He's never seen her cower. He's seen her stand up to peacekeepers because they were rude. It was naïve and arrogant, but it was Effie. She uses her free hand to block her face. Her entire body shakes. He understands, and releases her. 

He's terrible at coddling, and worse at talking. He knows she's a little less of what she was. They all are. But when it comes to people, two halves don't make a whole, and he has no idea what to say. It doesn't get easier, it doesn't change, it never goes away. The truth isn't what she wants to hear, and he's never been much good at lying. He never thought he would miss her optimism. 

“Come on,” he says. 

“Where?” she asks. 

He puts his hand on her back, somewhere they wouldn't have touched, and guides her forward. “We'll eat with Peeta and Katniss.”

“Oh, we musn't intrude,” she says. 

He snorts. “Now you're worried about intruding? We'll just steal their food if they're otherwise occupied.”

Effie's cheeks turn pink. Her makeup is smeared enough that he can actually see patches of her skin. They make it as far as the doorway before she catches her reflection in a mirror. She squeaks and covers her face with both of her hands. 

“Haymitch! How could you let me out looking like this? Why didn't you tell me?” 

He cocks his head to watch as she shuffles away, hands still over her face. 

“Couch,” he says. She bumps into it before spreading her fingers away from her eyes so she can make a dash upstairs. He shakes his head, if there's one thing he learned from spending so much time working with Effie it's that he won't see her for hours while she powders and does whatever else it is one does to look like an idiot. He goes to his room to get the last of his whiskey – and hears a sob from her room. 

Haymitch sighs and rests his forehead against the door frame. He looks at the whiskey for a moment before turning around and making the walk to Katniss's home. When Effie finally does come downstairs, covered in makeup and with a new wig, she finds warm food in the kitchen.

She tries hunting with Katniss, and makes it as far as the woods before she calls the whole thing barbaric and comes back. She paints with Peeta, but her painting is just a vomit of colors. When she claims it's his house, Haymitch laughs until she stomps out of the room. Then he laughs more. She rearranges the furniture in his home and collapses in exhaustion after trying to push the couch forward a few inches. On and on she goes, each new task failed worse than the last. 

He comes back one day to find her sitting on his couch with all of her bags packed. 

“Oh, Haymitch.” She stands, smiles, looks almost like herself. “I was hoping I'd see you before I leave.”

He eyes the bags suspiciously. “I'm not going to ask you to stay if that's what you're going for here, sweetheart.” 

She continues as if he hasn't spoken. “The Capitol wasn't very fun at all, you know. Afterward. Everything was wrong, and everyone just lied about it. I thought that maybe a fresh start – but obviously I don't belong here.” She smiles. 

He's always known Effie covers everything with a smile, but before it was covering being annoyed with him, or not liking a fashion statement. Now it's so much more. She begins to pull on a bag. He puts his hand on it to stop her. 

“Why can't you have a fresh start?” he asks. 

She laughs. “Oh, come now. You'll be glad to be rid of me. No more bothering you. It's clear I don't belong here.” She tries to pull the bag, but he doesn't budge. 

“So you suck at a lot of things,” he says. “What will you do in the Capitol?”

Fear flashes across her eyes. It's brief, but he knows fear, knows her, well enough to see it. She raises her chin and stands in front of him. Her heels put her at eye level with him. “I'll figure it out. There is always opportunity for those who seek it.”

“That's the dumbest thing you've ever said,” he says. “And you've said some pretty idiotic things.”

Effie tugs the bag, hard. He nearly loses his balance, but doesn't let go. When she can't get the bag, she tries to push past him to the front door. He blocks her. “Effie, enough.” 

“Let me go,” she demands. 

This is what he wanted, so why is he stopping her? He can't send her back, not with everything he knows happened to her. They didn't get her out, and by the time they realized how much danger she was in, it was too late. Keeping her alive took all his resources. Somehow, he thought that would be it, that saving her would send her on her own way. But where did he expect her to go? 

She hits him. It's such a bizarre, out of character moment, that he thinks she slipped. She hits his chest with her hand again, and then again, and again and again. Her hits are soft, and somehow that makes them worse, knowing how ill equipped she was when the Capitol held her. 

He lets her hit him until her breath gets heavy, then he catches her hands in his. 

“Feel better?” he asks. 

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I shouldn't have – please move, Haymitch.” 

“Stay.” 

“I told you-”

“Well figure it out.” He hesitates. He isn't the person who should be doing this. He's tempted to just take her to Peeta. They always got along. But she's here, now, and he knows he can't let her go. Not after everything. He owes her at least this, probably more. “We're a team, right?”

Her eyes focus on him, and she smiles. It's not quite right, and maybe it never will be, but it's something. Maybe that's the trick to Effie, just repeat things she says to gain her approval. Not that he needs her approval. 

She collapses onto his couch. Her shoulders slouch, and it's like all the energy drains out of her. It's another bizarre moment, seeing the too-energetic Effie without energy. 

“I'm not good at anything,” she says. “I'm not like you or Katniss or Peeta.”

“You're pretty good at annoying me,” he says. She gives him a look before leaning back into his couch and closing her eyes. 

“I'm not strong, I can't cook, and I don't even belong in the Capitol anymore.” He leaves her sitting, and comes back with two cups and a bottle of whiskey. She takes a cup without comment and he pours her some before pouring himself some too. She sniffs. “You're using a cup? Oh, Haymitch. I'm so proud of you.”

“There you are,” he says. She leans back against the couch and holds her cup, but doesn't drink from it. They sit arm-to-arm, like they did for so many games. He's not sure he'd call Effie a friend, but then again he's not sure he'd call most people he's known for years friends. When you lose too much at once, you learn that gaining things only means they'll hurt you later. He takes another chug of his drink, and burps. 

“Gone so soon?” he asks when she doesn't comment. When he looks over he sees that Effie has fallen asleep. This close her makeup can't cover up the bags under her eyes. She twitches in her sleep, and whimpers. 

Haymitch's hand tightens around his mug until his knuckles turn white. Snow would laugh if he could see them now, free but scarred. He's dysfunctional, but she shouldn't be. She was right, she doesn't belong here. As least, she doesn’t belong here being a hermit with him. Effie is as fit to be a hermit as she is to be a geese wrangler.

So the next day when Effie wants to go to the market, he goes with her. She bypasses the food, which he's grateful for, and goes straight to a booth with fabric. Once the only fabric District Twelve would have seen was to patch clothing. Now, they're able to import all ridiculous types and though it's only one booth's worth, Effie manages to spend hours at it. 

“Oh no, no,” she says to a woman trying to pair two fabrics. “You musn't, look this gold will make for a far more colorful array, you see?” 

The only reason he'd come today was to make sure Effie was okay. He wasn't interested in putting up with Katniss or Peeta if they found out she'd gone shopping and gotten mobbed. As it turns out, he's somehow the one sticking out as he stands beside the gaudiest woman he knows. 

She stays by the booth as she helps more and more people, some of whom he knows and can't believe are listening to her. Once they would have only cared about survival. Now, the district is free to chatter about useless things just like the Capitol. Every revolution had negatives, he supposes. 

When she finally decides to leave, it's with a basket of fabric, each rougher on the eyes than the last, and a wave and smile to the owner of the stall. 

“Oh, today was lovely!” she says. “Just lovely. Who knew the residents here would be interested in such things? They need help, of course, but it's the thought that counts, right? The air here is so nice, too.” 

“No air in the Capitol?” he asks. 

“It isn't the same. Not as fresh and... and...”

“Airy?” he offers. 

“No, that's not it,” she says. He can't tell sometimes if she's oblivious, or a master of ignoring him. “It's free.”

“Most air is free, even the Capitol couldn't work out how to take that away,” he says. 

“Couldn't take it away,” she muses. It wasn't meant to be a thought provoking statement, but she seems to take it as one. 

She goes to the market every day that week, and every day she comes back with more fabric until her room overflows with it. One day she comes back with clothes, and drags Peeta into her room. Haymitch has just enough time to glare at him for his transgressions before the two are gone for the rest of the night. 

Peeta leaves that night, but Effie stays in her room for the entire next day. He wonders what the chances are that she was buried under a pile of fabric and suffocated. When she does come out she immediately finds him, grabs him by the hand, and pulls him back to her room. 

“I have something to show you,” she says. 

“Moving a little fast aren't we, darling?”

She glares. “Be serious, Haymitch.”

A string has become a makeshift clothing line across the room. Outfits just like the ones she mutilated his clothes into hang on it. They aren't quite Capitol clothes, but they aren't quite normal either. He notices she's wearing a similar outfit, and beyond that her wig isn't right. It takes him a moment to realize that she's only wearing half a wig. 

The back is a wig, but the front is her hair, held up by some beauty magic so that it blends into the wig. It's the most of her real hair he's ever seen. He glances over and sees the part of the wig she discarded, not just torn up but shredded apart. 

“So many people here can't get their fashion right,” she says, her eyes lingering on his clothes for a moment. “I thought I could sell these, to help out.”

“You want my opinion on fashion?” he asks. 

“Of course not,” she scoffs, then hesitates. “I was wondering if you thought I could do it.”

“What do I care, as long as you stop burning down my kitchen and trying to talk to my geese?” he asks. 

She sits down on the bed. “You're right,” she says, and he wonders if she just hears him saying different things entirely. “I'm not a designer. Why should I be one now?”

He sighs and sits down beside her. “Your stuff looks just as awful as Capitol stuff, okay?” he says. “And it's not... it isn't just the fashion, is it? You keep selling awful colors to the people of District Twelve of all places. You were always good at talking to sponsors, who knew you could persuade real people too?”

He reaches out to squeeze her hand, just to reassure her, but in the next moment she's on him, her head against her chest and her arms around him. 

She sniffles. “Thank you.” He doubts very much that what he just said counts for as much as she seems to think, but he awkwardly pats her back. 

“Everyone in the Capitol keeps acting like nothing happened,” she says. “How can they do that?” 

“It's how they cope,” he replies. It doesn't make it any less repugnant, though. He wonders if she tried to ignore everything too, or if her scars ran too deep. Considering their current position, he assumes the latter. 

She pulls back from him and wipes beneath her eyes, but it only smears her makeup. She glances around, as if just realizing where they are, and her cheeks turn pink.

“Oh my!” she says. “Perhaps I should have hung them up downstairs.”

“No,” he says. “You definitely shouldn't have done that.” 

Bad enough she's overtaken this room, the last thing he wants is for his entire house to look like Effie. Next they'll be picking out pink drapes and purple carpet. 

She clears her throat. “Yes, well, thank you again Haymitch. For letting me stay.”

He laughs. “Letting you? I'm not sure I could toss you out if I tried, Trinket.” 

She ignores the comment and turns back to her clothes, murmuring to herself about this color scheme and that pattern. Haymitch shakes his head and goes to his room. 

In the morning he's awake when she packs all the clothes into one of her suitcases and lugs it downstairs. 

“I'll just try to open up beside the fabric seller's booth,” she says. “If no one buys anything, then we'll know District Twelve simply isn't cultivated enough for real fashion.” She opens the front door. 

“Effie,” he says. She turns back. “Good luck.” He gives her a thumbs up. She smiles. 

She comes back with an empty suitcase, a smile, and basket of food for him. He eyes it suspiciously.

“You didn't cook it, did you?”

“Peeta,” she says. “He brought it by as an opening gift, but I just had to share it with you. Isn't it darling? Look, he even made pink muffins!” 

Haymitch grabs a non-pink muffin and takes a bite out of it. “I assume it went well?” he asks around his mouthful of muffin. 

Effie frowns, and he's sure if she stays much longer she'll have a permanent crease in her forehead from disapproval. “Haymitch, really. I'll stop bringing food if you don't learn how to digest it properly.” When she sits down her lips are still slightly upturned, and damn if it doesn't actually warm him to his core. Maybe Peeta put something in the muffin. 

“And before you ask again,” she says, “it went very well. I sold all of my outfits. Can you believe that?”

“No,” he says. 

She swats his arm. He grins. 

“I should be able to hire a seamstress easily enough. I can't keep taking Peeta away from Katniss after all. That would be quite rude. I'm sure they'll be starting a family soon.”

“That won't take long for Peeta,” he says. 

“Haymitch!” she scolds. It's almost a reflex, and immediately after she keeps talking as if she didn't just yell at him. “My room is much too small to create enough outfits, of course, but the living room should do fine.”

He chokes on his muffin. “What? You can't have my living room.”

She waves a hand at him. “You can drink in the kitchen perfectly well.”

“It's mine,” he says, sounding a little too much like a petulant child. 

“It will only be for a short time,” she says. 

“You were only supposed to be here for a short time,” he retorts. “I'm not sure you and I see eye-to-eye on what short means.”

His living room is covered in outfits within a week. He and Effie eat together at breakfast and dinner, and she spends the rest of her day out in District Twelve selling her clothes. They're popular enough that he keeps seeing people who look alarmingly like Effie, but it really takes off months later when someone in the Capitol takes notice. 

Articles are written about her, and every one feels the need to mention how quaint her location is. 

“They've invited me to the Capitol for a few interviews,” she says. 

“Oh,” he says. She's been happy lately, not completely, but enough that he's at least sure she won't end up like him. Enough to nag him about everything, too. “Are you going?”

“Yes,” she says. “I can't stay here forever, can I?” 

“I thought you were just going for interviews,” he said. 

“Well, yes, but of course someone will want to keep me. My fashion could spread throughout the Capitol, can you imagine?”

“I thought you didn't belong,” he says. “Not enough air, right?”

“But I could provide fresh air with my fashion!” Effie trills. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Most people know air comes from clothes.” 

She talks about people in the Capitol she hasn't seen, about how they're all so interested in her clothes, about this and that and it's like a stone is sinking in his stomach. He knew this would happen, of course. Effie was always at the center of Capitol culture. Once a Capitol citizen, always a Capitol citizen, and apparently even torture can't break that. 

“Good,” he says. “I'll finally have some peace and quiet.” 

“I've asked Peeta to check in regularly with you, of course,” she says. 

He narrows his eyes. “I'm not a child.”

She snorts, actually snorts, and he's too distracted by how undignified it is to be offended. She covers her face, and embarrassment, with her hand. “Oh, my, you see? I've been here for much too long.”

Before he can comprehend his own actions, he's reaching out and lowering her hand. “There are worse things in the world.”

“Yes,” she says, an answer she never would have given before. “There are.”

Their hands remain together in the middle of the table, too long for it to be counted as a moment of friendship. 

“Effie-” he starts, just as she clears her throat and takes her hand away. 

“Yes, well, I'll be out of your hair in no time. Don't worry about walking me to the train station. Not that you would, of course, but don't worry about your bad manners for not walking me either, a few people have agreed to help me.”

He puts his hand back in his lap. “They want you gone as bad as me?” he asks. “And since when do you know people here?” 

She sighs and tsks at him. “Of course I know people here. We can't all shut out humanity and call grunts a conversation, after all. The people here have been very welcoming.” Her voice wavers. 

He can't stand the heat that won't leave his hand, or the way her voice cuts into him. Haymitch stands. His chair grates along the floor and Effie grimaces at the sound. 

“Yeah, well, good luck in the Capitol. Stay there this time,” he says. 

She nods, but doesn't respond. He sees her bite her lip before he leaves, and wonders if it'll really be the last time he'll see her. Probably not. Effie isn't so easy to get rid off. She'll be back if only to visit Peeta and Katniss and brag about her new endeavor. 

Since when did her invasion become a relief? 

She's going to the Capitol, he thinks, and I've turned into a soft fool. 

He wakes with his first hangover in weeks. Her room is empty. No, his guest room is empty. Downstairs he finds food laid out on a plate and a note about washing his dish after he eats. He takes a bite before he groans and gets to his feet, grabs his coat, and makes the walk to the train station. 

The train is already gone. 

Haymitch kicks the dirt, unsure what he would have done even if he had caught her, and that's when he sees her. Effie sits on a bench, her suitcases piled around her, and stares ahead at the tracks. Her hands shake in her lap. 

She's very good at covering this side of herself, maybe better than any of them. It probably comes from a life of living behind that makeup and behind Capitol politics. Effie would have been dead in a minute in the games, but strength isn't just about brute force or the will to survive. She closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, and he knows that in some ways she's stronger than he is. Instead of taking a crutch, like he did with alcohol, she's done something with herself. Something stupid, as far as he's concerned, but she isn't sitting around waiting to self destruct. It took him so much longer to do anything useful. 

Effie stands. Haymitch ducks out of sight. He watches her begin to drag her bags away from the station. He goes back to his house, and looks around the too-clean entrance with a frown. He finds all the trash he can, and tosses it around, before sitting back down to take a swig of alcohol straight from the bottle. 

A few minutes later the door opens and Effie stands with all her bags behind her. Her eyes widen. “Haymitch!”

He glances over at her. “Back so soon?” 

“I've only been gone a few hours!” she yells. “How could you possibly ruin this so soon?”

“I guess it's just a skill of mine,” he says. “Thought you were going to the Capitol.”

She purses her lips together. “Obviously I can't leave you in this state.” He doesn't miss the relief in her features. She claps her hands together. “Come, come, we can have this back to acceptable in no time if we work together.” 

It isn't quite what he'd planned, but it only takes a few minutes to clean up the mess. When they do, Effie looks at the floor. 

“I'm going to open a shop here,” she says. “I can live above it.” 

“You can stay.” She looks nearly as surprised as he feels. He shrugs. “You'll just use my house as storage if you own a shop. Might as well stay here, too.” 

It's a poor excuse, but if she notices she doesn't say as much. She launches forward, hard into his chest. He grunts and adjusts his footing before he wraps his arms around her. 

“We're friends, right?” she asks. 

“I would have murdered you by now if we weren't,” he says. “And if the kids wouldn't disapprove.” 

She pulls back so that their faces are close, and it's beyond distracting to have her hands on him and her face this close. She smiles. “It's nice, to have friends. I'm not sure I ever really did in the Capitol.” 

She leans forward and kisses the corner of his mouth. He reacts and pulls her closer, splays his fingers along her back, and kisses her. She sighs against his lips, and damned if his entire body doesn't tingle at the noise. 

When they pull apart he grins. “I should make more friends.” 

She lightly slaps his arm. Her eyes widen. “Oh, I can't stay here now.”

“What?” 

“It would be very inappropriate,” she says, clucking her tongue. “I have a reputation to build in town, you know.”

“Sorry to break it to you darling, but you've already been living here for months and that's no way to start building a reputation.”

She shakes her head. “You're well-loved, Haymitch.” He raises an eyebrow. “Well, I lo-” she blushes, “like you, anyway. So do Katniss and Peeta! If you didn't terrify everyone else they would love you too. They respect you.” 

He snorts. The town might have liked him once, before the games, but he hasn't been part of it since and he doesn't give a rat's ass about respect. 

“So you could live with me then, but not now?” he asks. 

“Yes, of course. If we're going to- if you and I- if we-”

“Extend our friendship?” he offers. She clears her throat. Her cheeks are a tinge of pink, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't find amusement in it. The Capitol has never been conservative, just judgmental, and he feels a certain pride in making her so flustered. 

“Yes,” she says. “It would be scandalous.” 

“Yes,” he drawls, “because there are so many people here to see what we do in our spare time.”

“I'm here,” she insists. 

He groans, grabs a handful of her dress, and pulls her close. It's probably not a good precedent to get her to shut up by kissing her, but he doesn't want to think about precedents. He doesn't want to wonder what this is, or what it'll become, or even when he stopped hating Effie. If you'd told him years ago that he'd be kissing Effie, he would have laughed, agreed she might be good for a quick roll in the hay, but that was all. 

He pulls her closer and presses his lips against hers. Her fingers wrap around his neck and she sighs. He grins, proud of making her swoon, and that's when she pushes against his chest to get him to step back. She frowns. 

“Haymitch! This is a serious discussion.” 

He should have known it wouldn't be so easy. 

In the next week she finds a shop with a room above it, and begins to spread her fashion to everyone. It's not popular with older generations, and it doesn't completely take over the younger generations, but it is noticeable and she gets orders from other districts and the Capitol frequently. 

He visits her sometimes, but the shop is always full of people chatting about the most mundane things, and he learns quickly that it isn't for him. 

But they still eat breakfast and dinner together, and he ignores Katniss and Peeta when they bring him food or try to talk to him about what he and Effie are. 

Effie makes him outfits, and he shoves all of them into his closet until he has to use the guest room to hold them. He assumes eventually the room will be overflowing with terrible clothes. 

It's a night like any other when she falls asleep on his couch, her feet in his lap. Her shoes murder her feet, but that, she says, is the price of fashion. It's one of many things she says that make absolutely no sense to him. 

She still murmurs in her sleep, still whimpers and shakes, and tonight is no different. She gasps, a less frequent noise, and he takes off one of her shoes and drops it to the floor. She startles awake, her eyes focusing on him before she glances down. 

“That shoe is very hard to find!” she complains. “It will not meet its death on your floor.” She glances at a clock and her eyes widen. “I should go.”

“Honey, you're here all the time. Why not stay?” 

“I can't. Improper,” she says, even as she yawns and rests her head back against his couch. He takes off her other shoe. She jolts up to reach it, but he drops it to the floor. Her eyes narrow at him. He leans forward to kiss her. She dodges the kiss to lean past him and check on her shoes. 

She breathes a sigh of relief. “You didn't ruin them.”

“Plenty of time for that,” he says. She hits him with the heel of the one of the shoes. “You've gotten mighty violent. What happened to manners?”

“Sometimes an exertion of force is necessary to train you,” she says. 

“Train me?” he sputters. “I'm not a dog.” 

Her look says she isn't as sure about it as he is. He rolls his eyes and kisses her. She smiles and cuddles up against him. It's nice having her here, though he wouldn't say as much. He thinks she knows. 

“Stay,” he says. 

“I really shouldn't,” she replies, even as she yawns against his shoulder. 

“Just for tonight, then,” he says. “I promise not to tell anyone about your descent into scandal.” 

“Only for tonight,” she agrees. He puts his arms under her back and legs and picks her up. She squeaks. “What are you doing?”

“Putting you to bed, of course,” he says. 

“Haymitch!” 

He rolls his eyes. “Your bed, not mine. Unless you're feeling up to fully descending into scandal.” 

She says his name disapprovingly again, but she's already drifting back to sleep. He shakes his head and carries her to the guest room, and the bed he still thinks of as hers. After he puts her down he pulls the blanket over her. Asleep, she reaches out and grabs onto his wrist, and God help him, he stays there with her.

She talks in her sleep sometimes, says things that make him furious and helpless all at once. He can't stop it, and he isn't naïve enough to think that somehow love or lust or whatever this is will heal her. Scars don't heal, you just get used to them. 

He kisses her hand and sits by her side. When she rolls over in her sleep, he'll go to bed. When the morning comes, he'll tell her she snored just to see her eyes narrow and hear her retort. 

He can't fix what happened, but he'll be damned if she doesn't get to live the best life she can, even if it means his house might one day have pink curtains and purple carpet.


End file.
